Northern England — 1333
Kneeling by the stream, I cup my hands and drink. Long and deep, handful after handful. For awhile, it will fool my empty stomach. Sitting back, I catch my reflection in a clear puddle next to the stream. I lean in closer, rub at my chin and cheeks. Stubble scratches my palm. I’ve started to grow a beard. I’d tried once when I turned twenty, but the growth had come in so sparse that I vowed never to try again. This is thicker, though. A sure sign of maturity. My nose and forehead are ruddy from the sun’s rays and my hair brassier than I’ve ever seen it.
At first I’d assumed I had only been unconscious for minutes or perhaps hours. Now, I’m sure it’s been days and I wonder if Claire’s brother notified the police when I didn’t return his calls. Even if they sent a search party after me, they probably aren’t going to find me in the middle of this wilderness.
For a long while I crouch by the stream, trying to keep a lid on the panic that’s building inside me. Any moment now, I could explode like a warm can of soda that’s been dropped on concrete. The longer I sit there, intermittently closing my eyes, then opening them, then closing them again, the more that sense of panic subsides. Exhaustion takes over.
Grasping the hilt of the sword and using it to brace myself, I stand, my knees wobbling, arms shaking. I desperately want to sleep so I can recharge, but that’ll have to wait until later. Right now, I need a way to get back to Claire, make sure she’s going to be okay. I put my head down and follow the flow of water.
Flakes of stone crunch beneath my boots. Unable to lift my feet, I inadvertently kick a stone into the stream. I hear a small splash and a low whinny and look up to see my horse-friend trotting toward me from fifty feet away. It’s gaining speed. Holy crap!
Knowing I’m not quick enough to dodge it, I drop the sword, throw my hands in front of me and wave them frantically.
“Whoooaaa, there! Whoa!” I have no idea if that’s the right command, but what else am I supposed to do?
Nostrils flaring, it tosses its head, swings sideways, and slams its front hooves into the stream, dousing me in a cold shower. After the shock wears off, I wipe the water from my face and push my hair back. I can now see from this angle that ‘it’ is a ‘he’.
He takes a step closer and nudges me in the chest with his muzzle.
“Get. Lost.” I tap him twice between the eyes with the heel of my hand. Quickly I wipe my hand on my shirt. “I’ll probably end up with welts the size of marbles, just for that.”
With an indignant snort, he nudges me again. Insistently. Plucking up the sword, I sidestep him and begin along the stream. If I ignore him like a lost puppy, eventually he’ll find something more interesting. But the steady clip-clop of hooves follows me, his snotty breath hot on my neck.
“Look,” — I spin around — “you’re really intruding on my personal space, you son of a —”
That’s when I see the scabbard strapped to his saddle, the serpent design on it matching the sword in my hand. I reach out, let my fingers wander over the intricate scrolls. A noise makes me jerk my hand away. The distant pounding of hooves rolls through the glen.
Plunging down the steep hillside toward the stream are three riders wearing clothes as ridiculous as mine. They look like they’re fresh from the Renaissance Fair. Or a Lord of the Rings convention. Maybe they’re extras in a movie? Or ... hell, I don’t know. This day is making less and less sense all the time. Might as well just go along with it. They might be a little weird-looking (I mean, who am I to talk?), but at least they’ll be able to get me back to the bed and breakfast.
I tuck the sword in my belt, grab the reins of my equine companion, and wait, mustering the most dignified expression I can manage.
‘Pardon me, gentlemen,’ I’ll say, not even daring to attempt a Scottish accent, ‘but could you perhaps direct me to the village of Aberbeg? I seem to have wandered astray.’
As the ground levels out, they turn their mounts and head in my direction, picking up speed. The closer they come, though, the less friendly — and more intimidating — they look. They’re all decked out in very authentic-looking chain mail, complete with helmets and weaponry. Two have their swords drawn and the other is gripping a spear. The two in back have studded round shields strapped to their arms, but the man in the lead is carrying a larger shield, painted with three white stars on a field of blue.
Relief gives way to apprehension, then quickly erupts into panic. I grapple for the stirrup, attempt to shove my foot in. The horse dances sideways at my sudden movements and I slip, smacking my jaw against the saddle. I go down, my knees slamming into sharp rocks.
They thunder nearer, weapons raised. Bearing down on me like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
So I do what seems sensible. To me. I point my sword at them and scramble under the horse’s belly. Which is not necessarily a smart thing to do, when you really think about it.
Lo and behold, they part. Then ... they encircle me.
I wag my sword at one and then another, hoping they’ll get the message. As I do so, I notice something odd: my shoulder doesn’t hurt. The fatigue is gone and in its place, a surge of manly strength courses through every muscle. The burst of excitement has also sparked a rush of adrenalin. Feeling emboldened, I creep from beneath the horse’s belly, thankful he hasn’t stomped on me, but keep my back to his ribcage for protection — which is a bit idiotic when you consider that I’m surrounded by three armed men who look far more experienced with their weapons than I am with mine.
The man in front of me eases his horse in close and aims his spear at my chest. “Drop your weapon.”
He’s in his fifties, maybe, but he’s broad-shouldered and strong-limbed. If he hurls that thing, I’ll be skewered where I stand.
“You dispatched with the last one, Keith,” says the man to his right. “This one’s mine.” His brogue is the thickest I’ve heard since setting foot in Scotland. I can barely understand him, although my ears are becoming better attuned each day. Yet, some of their words seem only vaguely familiar: more archaic than vernacular, and almost foreign to me. I can barely piece together their meaning by context.
“Like bloody hell I’ll hand him over to you, Malcolm,” the older one says, still aiming his spear at me. “You’d probably beat him for information, collect his ransom and deliver a corpse to them. I say we just make quick work of it and be on our way.”
Malcolm eyes me with eyes that are as dark as they are merciless. Unruly black hair, bronzed at the ends by the sun, tumble from beneath the edges of his helmet. Despite his boldness, a quick glance around tells me he’s the youngest of the bunch — and the one I stand the least chance against. A smirk flashes across his clean shaven face as he relaxes in his saddle. “On second thought, aye, he’s yours. One less Englishman to —”
“Englishman?” I blurt out. “Oh no, no. I’m certainly not English.”
I hope ... pray this little admission will save me, because I’m sure at this moment that I’ve been waylaid by thugs on horseback. I’ve heard there are modern Scots clamoring for independence even in the twenty-first century. They even have their own parliament now — although to me that’s kind of like Texas having its own president. I’m more than baffled that they’d carry their political leanings as far as assault on any Englishman. If I can convince them I’m an American citizen ... Or maybe that’s just as bad? I should really watch more BBC News when I get home.
Footsteps sound behind me. I turn my head to see that the one who led them down the hill is studying me intensely. Not in an altogether unfriendly way, but not like he’s going to suddenly embrace me in brotherly love, either. Or is he? I can’t tell from the odd look on his face.
Movement stirs at the edge of my vision. The dark-haired man, Malcolm, has dropped from his saddle and is swinging his sword side to side.
I throw my sword at his feet in surrender. It isn’t like I’m going to win this fight, anyway. But it’s the man now behind me who swoops
in, tucks his own sword back into its scabbard and plucks up my abandoned blade. He inspects the hilt closely. Just as he straightens, Malcolm rushes at me.
“Malcolm, no!” the man holding my sword shouts. He’s the one they seem to be looking to for direction. “Leave him. He’s not one of them. Who do you think is responsible for the dead Englishman we just found?”
Malcolm glares at him. “Him? This spineless milksop?”
“Whose blood do you think he’s wearing? Certainly not his own. There’s barely a scratch on him.”
With a mocking bow, Malcolm concedes. “As you wish, my lord.”
“Something about you ...” Their leader circles me to stand between me and Malcolm. “Tell us your name.”
“Ross Lyndon Sinclair,” I mumble.
A look of recognition sweeps over his face. Flinging his arms wide, he comes at me. I shrink back against the horse until there’s no retreat. He clenches my shoulders, yanks me to him and kisses me on both cheeks. “What’s wrong with you, man? You should have told us sooner. Keith and Malcolm would have run you through if I had let them.” He looks me over, head to toe, then thrusts me aside to peer over his shoulder. “Malcolm, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I wasn’t sure, my lord,” Malcolm says, not convincingly. “He looks ... different.”
“Right you are, Malcolm.” Wearing a grin of amusement, the leader tweaks my scraggly beard. “You look dreadful. Like you’ve been in a shipwreck. I barely recognize you. Can’t say imprisonment agreed with you. At any rate, we’re overjoyed to have you back with us, Sir Roslin. Delighted!”
Imprisonment? Sir Roslin? Or is he saying Rosalind? What the Sam Hell is he talking about?
Keith dismounts and thumps me on the arm hard enough to send me reeling sideways. “By God, it is him. They’ve nearly starved him. Looks like he’s been dragged behind a horse all the way from London, as well.” He’s older than the other two by a good two decades, judging by his white hair. “I say we take him back to camp and feed him a side of beef. Fatten him up.”
“Thank you, but ...” How do you politely decline an animal carcass when three weapon-wielding Scots are offering to feed you? “But you see, I need to get back to Aberbeg. I was just —”
“Aber-what?” Keith says.
“Aberbeg, a quaint little village a few miles north of Berwick,” I tell him. “I left there just this morning, or at least I thought it was this morning. Apparently, I’ve been lost for awhile. I was riding toward Berwick when a lorry came at me and ran me off the road and I ... I ... must have hit my head. And then ...”
Three befuddled faces stare back at me. Clearly, I’m speaking Swahili to them. “You know — Berwick, England?”
“Berwick is in Scotland, lad,” Keith says. “Although it may not be much longer, if we don’t get back there soon. You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
More looks are exchanged. Now I’m confused. I get the sense that they’re convinced I’ve been hiding under a rock lately.
The leader grips my arm. “Roslin, do you know who I am?”
I’m about to correct him on my name, but there are more important things to get straightened out right now — like why three grown men are pretending to be medieval knights. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue.”
His brows fold together with concern. “Sir Archibald Douglas — Guardian of the Realm.”
If it’s supposed to be a joke, I don’t find it funny. The Archibald Douglas he’s speaking of has been dead for close to seven hundred years. A huff of laughter escapes me. “Is that some title bestowed on you by the Society for Creative Anachronisms?”
A quizzical look passes over his face, but he quickly erases it. “No, you wouldn’t know of my appointment. When you were taken prisoner the same time as Sir Andrew Moray last year, the honor fell to me. No word of a ransom request was ever sent for you. We all reckoned you were dead. You can understand why we are so surprised to find you here.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, although this is all more than a bit far-fetched. “And where is ‘here’, exactly?”
“Northumberland,” Archibald says. “Just north of Rothbury Forest. Headed toward the Cheviot Hills. Barring any unexpected encounters, we can be at camp in a few hours and then back at Lintalee by tomorrow evening.” His hand falls away from my arm, but his eyes linger on my face. “You’ll have to tell us later how you escaped.”
Play along, Ross, I tell myself. These guys have sharp, pointy objects and aren’t afraid to use them.
“To be truthful, I don’t know. There seems to be a lot I don’t remember right now.” I’m not sure where Lintalee is, but that’s the least of my concerns. I do know the other places he mentioned are in northern England. How long have I been wandering around, anyway?
“Understandable,” Archibald says. “Meanwhile, you’ve obviously suffered a hard fall. I’ll send word on to your father to meet us at Lintalee.”
“Are you certain that fetching his father is the best idea, my lord?” Malcolm has returned to his horse, although he hasn’t stopped glaring at me the whole time. “The last time someone mentioned his name to Sir Henry, he wasn’t exactly overjoyed.”
Archibald glances at my sword, then hands it to me. “The man should know his heir is alive and ... well.”
His voice falls off at the last word. They doubt my mental capacities. Whoever these men are, they’re thoroughly convinced they are from the fourteenth century and I’m the crazy one. That or they’re damn fine actors.
Whatever is going on, I’m glad they’ve claimed me as friend, rather than foe. For now, I’ll go along with them. But at the first sign of modern society, I’ll slip off to find a telephone, get someone to give me a lift back to the B&B at Aberbeg, then alert the authorities that there are some whack-jobs traipsing around the forest pretending to be ‘the king’s men’.
I slide the sword into its scabbard, jam my foot in the stirrup and haul my aching body into the saddle. By tonight, I’ll have a head to toe rash, but I have to get out of here somehow. After a quick mental review of how to steer a horse — pull back for the brakes and a gentle kick to the flanks to accelerate — I make small talk.
“So how is ...” — Dang it! What is Robert the Bruce’s son’s name? I venture a guess — “King David these days?”
“Well enough,” Archibald says. “A shame, though, he understands so little of what is going on.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s still very much a boy. Only nine.” Archibald mounts, then brings his horse close to mine. “You don’t remember him either, do you?”
“It’s all very foggy still. I have a horrendous headache. But I’m starting to remember a few things. Like that the Englishman and I fought. He struck me ... I stumbled, bashed my head on a rock. But I managed to run him through before I blacked out for awhile.” Wonderful. I’m now a fantastic liar, just like them. But if it keeps me safe long enough to get back to Claire, fine. Meanwhile, I need to keep these nuthouse escapees occupied. “But tell me more of David. And Berwick.”
“Hmm, well, you were at David’s coronation. And his wedding to the Princess Joan a few years ago. So was the young Edward of England, for that matter. I tell you, Roslin, this King Edward is a fiercer adversary than his father ever was. At his direction, Berwick is under siege. If I can’t raise a large enough force to relieve the city, it will fall to him and his minion, Balliol.”
Balliol? John Balliol? No, that’s not right. John Balliol was King of Scots before Robert the Bruce, albeit a very short reign. Maybe he had a son? Was it Edward Balliol? I’d only briefly read over the history of the time during my genealogy research, mainly on Wikipedia. Meanwhile, I run through the various Edwards in my head. Edward I, also known as Longshanks, Hammer of the Scots, died about 1308. Edward II, married to Isabella of France, who invaded England with her lover Sir Roger Mortimer and put her son on the throne. Ah, Archibald would be talking about Edward III then, victor of
Crecy and Poitiers. And Halidon Hill ...
Halidon Hill, just outside Berwick, against the Scots. But what was the date of that battle?
I give myself a mental slap. It doesn’t matter. This is 2013. These guys are just reenactors. Grown men pretending to be something they aren’t.
“Um, Archibald.” I have to restrain myself from calling the guy Archie, but it’s time to drop the pretenses and cut to the truth. “Look, you’re all very good at this. I’m especially impressed by the way you barreled down the hill, flailing your weapons like you were ready to gut me. You guys are Oscar material. But the thing is, I really need to get back to Aberbeg. My wife’s there and I’m afraid she isn’t well. If I don’t —”
“Your wife is at Blacklaw where you left her three years ago.” With a kick, Malcolm brings his mount abreast of mine. His upper lip twitches in a half-snarl. “And I assure you, she’s not ill.”
I blink in confusion. “I don’t know where this Blacklaw is, but I’m sure I’ve never even been there.”
Malcolm casts a dubious look at Archibald. His hand hovers over the hilt of his sword, but Archibald jabs a finger.
“Leave be, Malcolm,” Archibald warns.
“He’s not right in the head, my lord. Never was. Not even before he left for Spain with your brother. How do you know he hasn’t joined in league with Balliol? Don’t you think it suspicious that there was never any request for ransom? Nothing. Not that his father would have paid it, but we all assumed him dead. And now he suddenly appears before us with the tale of a fight with his captors and a blow to the head that’s conveniently robbed him of his memory?” In one swift motion, Malcolm draws his blade and thrusts the point at my ribs.
Instinctively, I suck my torso back. My balance shifts. I grapple for the edge of the saddle, clamping my knees. The ground swirls around me. A glint of silver catches my eye and I turn my face away, gripping with all my strength to keep from falling.
Metal clangs against metal. I jerk my head around to see Archibald’s sword leveled at Malcolm’s throat.
“God help me, Malcolm Forbes, but if you hadn’t already proven your value on this campaign, I’d cut you down on this very spot for your insolence.”
In the Time of Kings Page 9
